City of the Dead (Alex Delaware, #37)(64)

“He’s been to their place?”

“He’s seen them walking home.”

“Speaking of which, what do they drive?”

“Hold on…no registered vehicles.”

I said, “How old are they?”

“Twenty-five.”

“The Uber generation.”

He said, “No one wants to take the wheel…but Montag does. Six-year-old Ford Explorer.”

I said, “Plenty of room for a passenger or two. And a captive.”

He said, “I’m gonna drive by her place right now.”

“If you want, pick me up.”

“I want.”





CHAPTER


    29


Lisette Montag lived on Brooks Avenue off Sixth Street in the converted garage of a twenties bungalow spray-stuccoed Pepto-Bismol pink. Like the main building, a box with a low-peaked tar-paper roof. What a preschooler might produce when asked to draw a house.

A thoughtful conversion: separate driveway perpendicular to the lot, three windows dressing up the front, an eight-foot redwood fence shielding the guesthouse from the rest of the property.

Privacy that could be used all kinds of ways.

Milo said, “I don’t see her shooting anyone but you never know.” He slipped his hand under his jacket, unsnapped the holster of his Glock. We got out, breathed a curious mix of ocean brine and motor oil, and headed for the driveway where a gray Ford Explorer sat. The SUV’s nose was a couple of feet from the door. As we edged around it, Milo touched the hood. “Cold.”

He patted the bulge above his right hip and rapped on the door.

No response but a second try produced footsteps and a female voice.

“Who is it?”

“Police, ma’am. Incident in the neighborhood.”

“What kind of incident?”

“Robbery.”

“Oh, shit. Figures.”

Flash of badge, creak of hinges.

Lisette Montag, now sporting long, snow-white hair, looked at us with no evident anxiety. Today’s black lace ensemble was a bra and shorts under a filmy thing tied at the neck and billowing free. Smooth, white leg-flesh gave way to black leather boots at the knee. Even in stacked heels, she stood no taller than five-three. Unless she had magical mystical ninja training or a handheld nuclear weapon, zero chance of subduing an average-sized man, let alone Tyler Hoffgarden.

The same couldn’t be said of the identical hulks testing the springs of a couch a few feet behind her.

The Tabash twins were in a skinned-head phase. Maybe to showcase the riot of tattoos snaking across their crowns. Bare-chested above white shorts, socks, and shoes, they regarded us with wide eyes.

The only evidence of Milo’s surprise was a quick blink.

He said, “Hey, sorry if we’re interrupting something.”

Lisette Montag said, “We’re fine,” without looking back. “So where was the robbery, Officer?”

Rodney or Renny said, “Oh shit,” in a comically high voice. Mike Tyson recovering from a helium spurt. I tried to resist the clichéd assumption: overcompensation. Couldn’t fight it.

His brother said, “Cops?”

Lisette Montag whipped her head toward them. Instead of calming them down, her stare made their mouths twitch like galvanized frogs. Her fists clenched. But she was smiling when she turned back to us.

Milo said, “A few blocks away.”

“Happens all the time, no one ever gets caught.” Faint tremolo in her voice. Her eyes had grown active.

“That’s why we’re here, ma’am. It happened three nights ago. Were you here and if so did you hear anything?”

Montag fooled with white strands. “Yeah, I was here. But no, I didn’t hear anything.”

One of the twins made a squeaky noise. Another warning look from Montag.

Milo said, “Were you guys also here?”

“They weren’t.”

The twin on the left said, “Yes, we were, sir!”

The twin on the right said, “I told you, Lise,” and stood.

She said, “Why don’t you just sit down and chill, Renny.”

Hesitation, then obedience. Two massive heads drooped. The pitiful shame of mastiffs caught messing in the house.

Lisette Montag said, “Sorry about my cousins, they’re a little—” Eye roll, quick tap of one temple.

“We’re not cousins!” said Rodney.

“We’re sorry,” said Renny. “She told us—”

Montag wheeled again. “Shut up and let these guys do their job.” Pained smile. “Okay, Officer?”

Rodney said, “It is their job.”

Renny said, “We’re really sorry, sirs, we didn’t know!”

Milo took a couple of steps forward, keeping an eye on Montag as he favored the twins with an avuncular smile. “What are you guys sorry about?”

Montag said, “Nothing. They’re just talking. They’re kind of…” Tapping her temple.

“It’s her fault,” said Renny.

“She said it was just to show off.” Rodney. “We didn’t know what she was—”

“Shut the fuck up!”

Milo kept the smile going. “What was to show off, guys?”